Christopher's Diary: Echoes of Dollanganger

  “Your father is going to hate me,” he said.

  “He’ll be angry in the beginning, but after this, after I tell him all of it, he will understand. He and I love each other too much. Don’t worry. He won’t hate you. My father will always love everything I love.”

  I opened the door.

  Although Dr. West had not called ahead to tell William Anderson what we were bringing, he had called ahead while we were still in his office to tell him it was all right to see us. Kane stepped up beside me, and we started down the stone sidewalk. We were halfway to the front porch when the front door opened, and William Anderson’s wife pushed him in the wheelchair to the entrance. He was thin and fragile-looking. Damage had been done to his nerves and his legs, but he had a full head of beautiful graying flaxen hair and startling cerulean-blue eyes. Even in his early sixties, he was as handsome as I had imagined he might be.

  We had learned that he had been given to someone basically to drop off at a hospital emergency room away from Charlottesville. The man had been paid well to do it and disappear.

  The boy who would become William Anderson had been saved, but the serious damage had been done. However, there was someone else at that emergency room that day, someone who heard about this child left without anyone to claim him. He was a man of great means whose grandson had died in an accident shortly before and who couldn’t get this beautiful sick child out of his mind. He would take him into his home and his heart, make him part of his business, and leave a share of a fortune to him.

  That was nearly fifty-five years ago. He had gone through a great deal since, including therapy and eventually becoming a good enough businessman to continue to build on his inheritance.

  How ironic that of the four, he would become the wealthiest, with a loving wife and later, as we would find out, a son who was married with two sons of his own. The new house would have someone to inherit it.

  Now he raised his hand and smiled at us as if he knew what we were bringing, what his brother Christopher surely had wished with all his heart that, somehow, someone would.

  We knew that because of what had happened at Foxworth Hall and what had been made of his family name, it was best for him to return as someone else, even though he would always answer in his heart to his lost brother and sisters when they called, “Cory.”

  This was the reason I believed he was going back. He was hoping that someday he would hear them call him again.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at a new story in the Dollanganger family saga . . .

  By V.C. Andrews®

  Available in May 2015 from Pocket Books

  Prologue

  I don’t think I shall ever forget the exact time and what I was doing that second Saturday in October. It wasn’t unusual for us to have Indian summer in Virginia, but this one promised to linger longer than the others we had enjoyed. Six days before, we’d had an early frost, so no one had expected this change in weather. Of course, I was only sixteen years old then and hadn’t experienced many weather surprises compared with someone like my grandfather, who was fifty-eight, or our nanny, Myra Potter, who was sixty-three. The lush green leaves on the trees and bushes on our property and other estates nearby hadn’t even begun to show a hint of the brown and yellow to come. People, especially young people like me, returned to wearing short skirts, short-sleeved blouses, and shorts on weekends and after school. The day before, our grandfather had decided to reheat our pool for us to use on the weekend.

  I remember the weather so well that day because it seemed out of place for what was to come. There should have been more clouds, even an overcast, dreary sky. If it had rained, what happened wouldn’t have happened, because my nine-year-old brother, Willie, wouldn’t have been out there. So that day, the nice weather was our bad luck.

  I was up in my room, sitting at my desk and gazing out the windows that faced the front of my grandfather’s estate. It was one of those lazy mornings when, instead of flying about, birds would rather sit on branches and doze to the point where they looked stuffed. Even clouds were reluctant to move. As usual by ten thirty on a Saturday, I was on the phone with my newest best friend, Lila Stewart, planning what we would do with our afternoon and evening. I was thinking of having a pool party.

  The Stewarts had recently bought the property next to my grandfather’s on the north side. Because our property and theirs were at least ten acres each, their house wasn’t exactly close by. If either of us walked to the other’s front gate, it would take about fifteen minutes. Lila’s house, like ours, had a long driveway with gates, so you had to buzz the house to get in and start up the drive. If we rode our bikes, we could do it in about five minutes.

  Willie was very anxious to master riding his new bike on the street outside of our grandfather’s estate. Grandpa Arnold had bought it for him on his last birthday, but he had been permitted to ride it off the property only twice before, both times short rides accompanied by me. There was an immaculately kept sidewalk outside our property on both sides of the street. Nevertheless, people hardly ever walked there, which made it all right for Willie to ride his bike safely on them. At least, that was what we had all believed.

  I had my bedroom windows open to catch the cool breeze. Myra demanded that the maids air out the house at least twice a week, even in cooler weather, and Myra’s orders were followed as if my grandfather himself had issued them. Lila was running through a list of boys and girls I should invite to a pool party, when suddenly, I heard what was clearly a man screaming for help. Jimmy Wilson, the head of Grandpa’s maintenance staff, came out of nowhere and ran down the driveway to the front gate, where I could now see a man in a dark blue suit and tie grasping the bars like someone locked in a prison cell, shaking them as he screamed. I remember he had cotton-white hair, the strands of which looked like they were dancing every time he shook the gate.

  Jimmy opened the gate. The man spoke to him, gesturing wildly, and Jimmy turned and shouted to one of his staff to call the ambulance. Then he charged out with the stranger and turned right, disappearing behind the tall, thick evergreen hedges that lined Grandpa’s estate. They were so thick they seemed as impenetrable as the Berlin Wall.

  “Something’s wrong,” I told Lila, interrupting her ramble. “Something bad just happened.”

  “Where?”

  “Right in front of our property. I’ll call you back,” I said. I hung up before she could utter a syllable, threw on my sneakers, and rushed out of my room and down the stairs. I had no reason to suspect something involving any of us, but my heart was thumping so hard it felt like it might burst out of my back. Grandpa was outside charging down the driveway, too. I shouted to him, but if he heard me, he didn’t want to pause to turn, so I started after him.

  When I stepped out of the front and turned right, I saw the red pickup truck on the sidewalk. The driver was bent over the steering wheel, his head down. And lying on the sidewalk was my brother, Willie. Beside him, barely able to sit up, was Myra. Only a short while ago that morning, she had agreed to let Willie ride his bike slowly beside her while she walked up to the Qwik Shop. Grandpa, Jimmy, and the stranger, whose car was stopped on the street, were beside Myra and my brother. I saw his new bicycle against the fence and the hedge, bent into an L shape.

  “Grandpa! Is Willie all right?” I called.

  He was kneeling beside Willie. “Stay back, Clara Sue,” he said, putting his right palm up like a traffic cop. “Just stay back.”

  I stopped and stood there, frozen by the uncharacteristic hysteria in his voice. Grandpa was talking to Jimmy, who was holding Willie’s head off the sidewalk. The stranger was kneeling down now and talking to Myra. Then he rose and went to the truck and started yelling at the driver, who didn’t so much as lift his head from the steering wheel. A siren sounded, and I looked behind me as paramedics leaped out of a truck and hurried to Willie’s side. Carefully, they lifted him and put him on the stretcher. There was blood running down the left side of his face, and
his eyes were shut. His head turned from side to side as if his neck was broken. I gasped. My throat closed so quickly I couldn’t swallow. My whole body was shaking now.

  “Grandpa!” I shouted, unable to contain myself any longer, but he didn’t turn to me. He just held up his hand again and watched as they brought out a second stretcher and helped Myra onto it. She glanced back at me and closed her eyes quickly; she was obviously in great pain. Moments later, they had both been loaded into the ambulance, and the doors were being closed. Grandpa and Jimmy Wilson hurried past me.

  “Come on, Clara Sue,” Grandpa called, and I ran behind them. All the maids and grounds people were out front looking at us. As Jimmy started to explain to them what had happened, I got into Grandpa’s car quickly. He drove away so fast I was still struggling to close my door. We sped down the driveway, turned, and shot off after the ambulance, neither of us speaking. By now, there were two police cars at the scene of the accident, and the pickup driver was sitting up and talking to the officers. I looked back and then looked forward again as we made the turn, the tires squealing. I had never seen my grandfather drive like this.

  “Is Willie going to be all right, Grandpa?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  All my life, when something bad happened, adults would tell me everything would be all right. Grandpa Arnold was never someone who would lie to me or to Willie, but he certainly would do and say everything he could to make us less afraid and less sad. He tried to do this after our parents were killed in a boating accident off Naples, Italy, four years ago while we were staying with him and Grandma Arnold. It was supposed to be a very special holiday for our parents.

  “That man was drunk,” Grandpa suddenly muttered, with his teeth clenched. I never knew any other man who had a face as strong and as hard as my Grandpa Arnold’s. It looked chiseled in granite. Anger didn’t make him redden; it made him gray. When he turned his hazel eyes on people, they could feel the rage so quickly that it would start them stuttering.

  “Drunk?”

  “Drunk! This early in the day. Drunk!”

  “What did he do?”

  “Do? He lost control and hit the sidewalk, and instead of pressing down on his brakes, he apparently pressed down on his accelerator and smashed right into them. He couldn’t have done worse if he had done it on purpose,” he said.

  “Who is he?” I asked. I just wanted to keep on talking and keep my grandfather talking. My heart was still beating so hard I was sure that if we were silent, he would hear it, too.

  “Some rover. Jimmy says he works for Mackingberry’s Plumbing Supply,” he said, and took a breath. “He’ll never work again if I have any say about it,” he added. “And that company won’t do another thing in any home around here if he isn’t immediately fired.”

  Grandpa drove so fast that we were only about a minute behind the ambulance. The paramedics and hospital personnel had just carried Willie and Myra into the emergency room. Grandpa pulled into a no-parking zone and bolted out, barely closing his door. I ran to keep up with him. He looked like he would walk right through the emergency room’s glass door rather than take a second to open it. In fact, when he did open it, he nearly ripped it off its hinges. The sight of him still in a rage stopped people talking.

  There were many other adults in the lobby, mostly patients waiting to be seen because of minor accidents or illnesses and some of their relatives or friends. There was a great deal of commotion in the hallways. My grandfather was never one to stand and wait for someone to ask if he needed help. He marched in past the admittance nurse despite her protestation, and I followed in his wake.

  When one of the doctors stepped out of an examination room and looked at us, Grandpa simply said, “It’s my grandson.”

  “Which one?” the doctor replied.

  “What?”

  “We have two little boys just brought here. One brought by ambulance and one left here by some idi—” He sucked in what he was going to say when he saw me standing there, too. “Someone who left without giving any information.”

  “My grandson was in the ambulance. He was hit by a drunk driver, and my nanny was also brought in.”

  “Okay. Just give me a minute to check on your grandson. Your nanny is in the far right examination room,” he said, and went down the hallway to a room where some other doctors and nurses had gathered.

  When a fancy-looking machine was wheeled into that room, Grandpa looked at me gravely. “Stay here,” he ordered, and walked ahead, even though the doctor had told him to wait. He looked into the busy room and then took a step into it.

  I waited, holding my breath. No one seemed to notice me. I think everyone was simply too busy to waste time inquiring about my presence. Nurses rushed by. Another doctor appeared, this one in a suit and tie but with a stethoscope around his neck. He went quickly into the room Grandpa had entered. I had no idea how much time had passed; to me, every second was a minute, and every minute was an hour. When I finally saw my grandpa emerge, he had his head down, and the doctor in the suit was standing beside him, talking to him softly, his hand on Grandpa’s shoulder. The doctor stepped away, but Grandpa remained there looking down.

  I know anyone would think I made it up, but there was the same high whistle I’d heard when I was told our parents had been killed in a freak boating accident thousands of miles away on a blue sea with the sun shining and excitement and laughter whirling about them. It was as if all the air was being sucked away from me. I could hear it seeping off—the whistling sound. I would hear the same sound years later, too, when Grandpa returned from the hospital to tell me Grandma Arnold had died from a massive stroke. I don’t think I was breathing either time, and I didn’t think I was breathing now.

  When Grandpa Arnold finally lifted his head and looked at me, I knew: Willie was gone.

  But I would soon learn in a strange way that he would not be gone forever.

  ABOUT

  One of the most popular authors of all time, V.C. Andrews has been a bestselling phenomenon since the publication of Flowers in the Attic, first in the renowned Dollanganger family saga, which includes Petals on the Wind, If There Be Thorns, Seeds of Yesterday, and Garden of Shadows. Today, more than seventy of V.C. Andrews’s novels have sold worldwide and been translated into twenty-five foreign languages.

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